Inconceivable
by moirariordan
Summary: "Well," Bellamy says dryly, "this whole diplomacy thing sure is going great."


On some level, Clarke doesn't know why she gets surprised by these sort of things anymore. Last month, the entire camp ate some bad not-strawberries and everybody's tongue turned blue for over a week. Two days ago Jorah saw something she insisted to anyone who would listen was an actual unicorn, and on the hike over here, they'd been serenaded by a flock of birds whose caws sounded eerily like a bunch of gravelly old men beatboxing. So - you know. Earth is weird.

Still, every once in awhile it manages to, well - let's go with 'take her off guard.'

"They want you to have sex," says Arden.

Clarke and Bellamy stare at her. Arden fidgets.

"Uh, with each other," she clarifies.

"What," Bellamy says flatly.

Arden flinches a little, which, Clarke doesn't exactly blame her. Bellamy's what the fuck voice is legitimately terrifying. "It's part of the ritual they perform for the spring solstice. All their trade partners do it; it's how they prove their worth to God that they're, er, rejoicing in the bounty of...something." Arden shrugs a little helplessly. "There were a few words I couldn't translate exactly but that's basically the jist - "

"But the sex part came through loud and clear?" Bellamy snaps.

Arden flinches again, and Clarke slaps his arm, an automatic instinct. A few feet away, she can see the grounder clan council - the Marach, she corrects in her head, if they're going to be trade partners the least they can do is use their actual name - standing stoically, watching them with easy, placid patience. They don't look like the type to demand weird sex favors in return for grain and access to hunting grounds, but well - Earth is weird.

"You asked me to come and translate, well that's what I did," Arden says defensively. "It's not normal French, okay, it's French after a hundred years of evolution and it's not like textbooks on the Ark got automatic updates or anything. I'm doing the best I can."

"You're doing fine," Clarke soothes. "You're sure - I mean - it wouldn't be like, a miscommunication of some kind?" she asks hopefully. "Like maybe the word for 'sex' actually means, like, 'gift' or - or 'communion' or something now - "

"They were...pretty explicit on the sex part." Arden shifts uncomfortably. "There were hand gestures." She frowns. "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Bellamy says.

"Okay," Clarke says, trying to keep her calm, "okay. Can we, I don't know. Can we negotiate? Maybe explain to them that it's - it's not something we do, and we could...offer them something else, instead?"

"I can try," Arden says, looking skeptical. She glances at Bellamy one more time before turning back to the Marach. Even the way she walks away looks reluctant.

"Well," Bellamy says dryly, "this whole diplomacy thing sure is going great."

Clarke glares at him. "Yeah, because clearly the smarter option would be to kidnap their leader and hold them hostage in exchange for two barrels of grain a month, Bellamy."

Bellamy looks contemplative at that, and Clarke tries very, very hard not to be offended that he seems more willing to start a war than to have sex with her. She fails. "Don't tell me you're actually considering doing this."

"I'm not," Clarke says, feeling an embarrassing rush of blood flood her cheeks. "I definitely do not want to have sex with you."

"Good, because neither do I."

"Good."

"Good."

Clarke turns away from him at the same time as he does the same to her, and they stand in resentful silence for a few moments, watching Arden speak and gesture with the Marach. It...doesn't look like it's going particularly well.

"If we're going to have any long-term presence in this area, we need to have peace with these people," Clarke says after a moment, quite needlessly.

"I am aware of that," Bellamy says, enunciating each word in that precise way he has when he thinks she's treating him like an idiot.

"They might take our refusal to do this as an insult."

"I am aware of that, too."

Clarke glares at the side of his head. "You're being difficult."

"You're being sanctimonious."

Clarke huffs. It's not like she does it on_ purpose._ "I'm just saying," she starts, and breaks off when it comes out much louder than she'd intended. Two of the Marach councilmen glance over warily, and Bellamy shoots her a severe look. "I'm just saying," she tries again, controlling her volume, "that we need this. Like, we really need this, Bellamy. We can't handle another fight right now and winter was tough this year; we're exhausted. We can't pick up and move again until we all get some rest."

It's been a very long, fraught week, these negotiations with the Marach, and Clarke can see every second of it on Bellamy's face in that moment. "Why don't you just come out and say what you're trying to say, Clarke?"

"Fine." Clarke sighs. "It's better than what the River Clan asked us to do."

Both of them wince in unison. Nobody likes to talk about the River Clan.

Bellamy glances back over at the Marach. Arden is still talking, holding her hands out in a placating gesture, but none of them look particularly moved. "It's a dangerous precedent," he says, voice carefully quiet. "For us, if not for them. To compromise on our principles so easily."

"Sex is a principle for you?" Clarke asks incredulously, unable to help herself. Bellamy shoots her another dirty look. "No, really, I mean - it's not like they're asking us to kill each other at the end of it, it's just - "

"Oh come on, you know what I meant," Bellamy interrupts, irritated. Clarke squares her shoulders. Fine, yes. "It's a slippery slope - today it's sex, tomorrow it's, I don't know, human sacrifice or something. Besides, we don't even know all the details yet."

"Details," Clarke says blankly, and Bellamy looks pointedly over at the ceremonial center of the Marach camp, a large, stone altar decorated with various bundles of food and flowers. "Oh my _God _- "

"Yeah," Bellamy says, with finality. "So. Don't go taking off your pants just yet, princess."

Clarke looks at the ground and concentrates on not blushing. She fails again. "We still may not have much of a choice," she mumbles. When she dares to raise her eyes again, Bellamy is focused on Arden, who's heading their way, two Marach in tow.

"There's always a choice," Bellamy says darkly, and Clarke groans internally. That's the kind of thing he says before he starts wars, generally. "Look, just back me up on this play, okay? I'm not going to let them force you into anything that makes you uncomfortable. We'll hear them out but we won't roll over."

"Fine," Clarke agrees, reluctantly charmed by his sneak attack gentlemanliness, as always. "I appreciate that."

"You're welcome."

"Still don't want to do you," she adds.

Bellamy nods knowingly. "Back atcha," he says, and grins a little bit as they fist bump.

* * *

Okay, so, Clarke is a twenty-four year old woman who has lived on Earth for the better part of a decade, and pardon her language, but, well - she's seen some shit. She's done some shit. She's lived some shit. And contextually speaking - it wouldn't really be _that _big of a deal.

The whole princess thing is more of an advantage than anything these days, but this part of it never fails to be irritating - how they underestimate her sometimes. It gives her authority, reverence, helps people look up to her and seek her guidance, but it also makes them think that she's...breakable. It makes people who hate her want to ruin her, and people who care for her want to protect her, and it's annoying as all hell in either incarnation, to be honest.

So while the idea of having weird possibly-public sex with her platonic political life partner in exchange for a measly trade agreement and a tentative non-aggression pact might not be Clarke's favorite way to ring in the growing season, but like she said, Clarke's seen some shit, and last winter she had to perform open-heart surgery on a fourteen-year-old boy with his mother's dagger at her neck the entire time, so like, let's try and keep some perspective here, people.

Clarke's a nice girl, and she does still believe in love. But sex is sex, love is love, you can have one without the other, and she's pretty sick of eating those crappy berries that taste like creek water every day, so whatever. She's not about to lose her head about it.

(Plus, it's not as if Bellamy isn't - that she hasn't - whatever. She's not thinking about this. Shut up.)

* * *

But like, even if she had thought about it - which she_ hasn't _- it's not like it would mean anything, that it wouldn't be totally understandable. She and Bellamy have been living in each other's pockets for years, and it's not like there haven't been - it's natural, okay. Perfectly natural, especially considering that Clarke's love life hasn't exactly been all that lively, considering the blood, death and politics of survival on planet Earth. She's been busy, alright?

Sometimes she thinks she knows his body better than she knows her own, she's had her hands in it so many times. Every scar, every wound, every bruise, she knows, can place on the mental map in her head that pulls up every time her eyes close, and even beyond that, even beyond the intimacy that comes from stitching someone back up over and over, holding them together with your bare hands, there's everything else there too - late nights in tents and muddy ravines and muggy, moss-filled caves, early mornings at the edge of camp passed with cups of purloined coffee and seaweed tea. Every fight, every decision, every moment since she first stepped foot on the ground has happened right next to him, standing shoulder to shoulder, back to back, Bellamy Blake - her partner. A complicated man with simple desires, her perfect complement, in so many ways.

(Like - put like that, it's weirder that she hasn't thought about it. But she hasn't. Again, just clarifying.)

But thoughts are just thoughts and, just, it's not like that, with Bellamy, right? It couldn't be like that, not when it's so important for them to be in sync, not when they have an entire colony of people - almost four hundred now, Clarke thinks sometimes, faintly and with no small amount of shock - depending on them to be sane and solid and unwaveringly together. And sex and love and all that, that's just - that's a bad idea. It just - it just is.

Anyway. Not that Clarke would - anyway. She's done talking about this.

* * *

"I'm sorry about this," Arden says again, a little frantic as she tries to apologize, help Clarke into the dress and not meet her eye, all at the same time. "I know how you feel about skirts and I tried to talk them out of it but apparently it's important, like a roleplay thing and - "

"Roleplay?" Clarke repeats dumbly, pausing. The bodice on this thing is made from some kind of bone, and she can already feel the ache she'll have later, the old bullet wound in her side that never quite stops hurting. "What, do we have lines or something?"

"Oh - no," Arden says, flustered. Clarke is reminded kind of suddenly that she's barely nineteen years old. As fierce as she is, and as passionately as she fights for them, she still came down with the Ark, still was shielded from the worst of those first few years, tucked safely away in quarantine at Mount Weather. "No. From the way I understood it, it's like a ceremonial, uh, reenactment, I guess? They have this whole story about the seasons, how spring and summer reunite to defeat autumn and winter every year. Spring is female, summer is male, and they celebrate by, uh - "

"Right," Clarke says resignedly, grunting as Arden pulls the last latch together on the dress. It's too small for her, really, made for somebody with smaller breasts, but at least she can breathe in it somewhat comfortably. And it is pretty - the bodice is horrific but the skirt is made from well-made, white cotton - they must have traded with the Mountain for it - and it flows loose around Clarke's knees, brushing pleasantly against her bare skin. It is, honestly, the nicest thing she's worn in years. "That's an interesting way to look at it, I guess."

"Yeah, I thought so, too." Arden's face brightens a little, and she pulls at her braid a little nervously, smiling sweetly at Clarke. "You look very pretty in it, you know."

"Thanks." Clarke smiles back. It feels kind of awkward on her face. "And - you made sure to get them to agree to the lock on the door, right?"

"Yeah, yes," Arden says. "Bran - that's the main guy, the tall one I was talking to - he was really insistent about it, actually. Apparently when the leaders from other clans do it, they usually bring their own people to stand guard. He wanted to make up the difference, since all you guys have is - well. Me." She smiles sheepishly, then blushes and looks away.

"Right," Clarke says slowly. "Well, glad to know the ritualistic sex clan has such high standards of privacy. Admirable."

"It seems important to them," Arden says, maybe a little defensively. Clarke looks at her sharply, and some of her fire finally comes back, straightening her posture and turning her eyes flinty. "It's their religion. It really is important to them. And it's not meant to be an invasive thing, it's - a celebration, meant in good faith. That's why they seemed so insulted when we wanted to turn it down." She shrugs. "It's a great honor, to be allowed to perform this. Apparently."

Clarke exhales slowly, and tries very hard not to laugh at the reality that having sex with Bellamy Blake is, at the moment, a great, sacred honor.

"Okay," she says, "thank you for your help. I appreciate it."

Arden nods, stepping back at the dismissive tone. "You're welcome," she says, back to deference. Clarke is grateful for that, at least. "They'll send him in soon, I think."

"Alright."

"I'll leave you alone," Arden says quietly.

"Wait," Clarke says, halting her, "thank you. Honestly. And - " she clears her throat. "Thank you for agreeing to - I know it might be awkward for you to lie, when we get home, but - "

"It's nobody's business but yours and Bellamy's," Arden replies firmly, and Clarke remembers now why this girl is her second, why Bellamy chooses her to accompany them on these necessary, delicate trips. "Good luck," she adds, a bit wryly, and Clarke laughs sharply, surprising herself.

"Thanks," Clarke says again, and finds herself surprisingly comforted, watching her close the door softly behind her.

Finding herself alone, Clarke moves to sit down on the bed and then changes her mind, heading to the small, wooden table instead. The turf structures the Marach live in are small, and crude-looking, but they're impressive in their sturdiness, and this one is packed full of the highest luxury that exists in this part of the world: wolf pelt blankets on the bed, an array of hard-to-find fruit on the table, even a jug of what Clarke strongly suspects might be the spiced wine the southern clans produce sometimes, when the crops are good enough. Her mouth waters, just looking at it.

She nibbles a little at the food, confirms her hypothesis about the wine. Walks over and touches the elaborate, beautiful designs on the walls, carved into the hardened mud and painted meticulously in vibrant colors. It is amazing, she thinks, what humans are capable of, even in the most dire and stressful of circumstances. It never really fails to humble her.

(She's not nervous. She's not. She is _not_. She definitely, one hundred percent, absolutely is not even a little bit - )

"Hey," Bellamy says, suddenly appearing in the doorway, and Clarke nearly jumps out of her skin. When she whirls around, he's smirking at her. "Wow, okay, someone's jumpy. It's almost like we're about to - "

"Shut up." Clarke scowls at him, smoothing down the skirt nervously. "You startled me, is all."

Bellamy smirks again, but apparently is going to take the high road on this one, and doesn't reply as he steps inside, shutting the door firmly behind him. The deadbolt sliding into place is a comforting sound. "They treat you alright?"

"Yes." She picks at the dress again fastidiously. "They put me in a dress," she says a little dumbly. Bellamy raises an eyebrow at her, like, well, duh. "I mean, obviously." She picks at the bodice. "It's a little small."

"Still better than what I got away with," Bellamy says scornfully, stepping further into the room. For the first time, Clarke registers his clothing - the dark pants most of the Marach men wear, and his chest, bare and painted in the same swirling spirals of paint that adorn the walls. "I feel like I got attacked by a bunch of overexcited kids with fingerpaint." He grimaces, flexing his arms in apparent discomfort, causing the swirled designs painted on them to distort a little with the movement of his muscles.

"That's," Clarke says, throat sort of dry, "uh, it looks still wet. Won't it…"

Bellamy shoots her another one of those looks. "Yeah - I think that's the point, princess."

"Oh." Clarke looks down at her dress. Suddenly the bright white color and hard-to-unfasten bodice make a whole lot more sense. "Oh. Okay."

"Right. So." Bellamy sounds resigned, running one hand over his brow as he speaks. "I suppose we could try to fake it, but - "

"We can't," Clarke blurts, feeling an odd jump in her stomach when he turns to look at her curiously. "I mean, just - good faith. That's the golden rule, remember?"

"Right." Offer something to a grounder, you follow up. Period. The lesson they'd learned in many, varied, violent ways, that first year on Earth. It hasn't failed them yet. "The whole...principles thing again."

"Yeah, and - " Clarke shrugs. "It seems like a lot of effort to go to anyway, when we could just…"

Bellamy raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish, a mean grin spreading across his face when she trails off into silence. "Gonna be hard to _do _it if you can't even _say _it, princess," he says.

"Oh, shut up."

"No, I'm just saying, like - effort is kind of a big part of it. Are you sure you've been doing it right?"

"I said shut up," Clarke says, laughing a little. She's a little relieved, ludicrously, that he's being a jerk about it. It makes her feel a little bit more sure-footed. The laughter bubbles up again at the look on his face - that skeptical side eye he graces her with whenever she does something he doesn't understand. Or agree with. Or like. Or - you know, that's probably just how he looks at her, most of the time. "Nothing. Sorry. Just - this is weird, and - "

Bellamy's mouth quirks a little. "Right."

"Can we just…" Clarke shakes her head, taking a moment to close her eyes and breathe out, gathering some of her calm back around her, a comforting shroud. "We should eat."

"Okay." He's still smirking a little, but joins her at the table nonetheless. "Is that - "

"Mulled wine," Clarke finishes with a grin. "Yes."

"Christ." Bellamy snags it from her outstretched hand and takes a long swig straight from the cask, sighing in pleasure as he lowers it back to the table. "Fuck, I haven't had good booze in forever."

"Not that I don't love Monty's moonshine or anything," Clarke says, "but I know, right?"

Bellamy grins wolfishly and generously hands the wine back for her to take her turn. Clarke shivers a little when his hand brushes her forearm as he pulls back.

"Haven't had a spread like this in awhile," Bellamy comments after a second. He picks up a fruit Clarke doesn't recognize and taps it against the table, frowning and discarding it when the sound seems to displease him. "Might as well take advantage of it, I guess."

Clarke watches him pick up a strip of dried meat and rip it in half with his fingers, sort of transfixed by the movement of his hands in the dim light.

"Here," he says, handing the other half to her. Clarke takes it, bites into it mindlessly, eyebrows shooting to the top of her forehead when she realizes that this is_ bear _meat - the rarest thing on the table, probably. Her surprise is mirrored on Bellamy's face when she looks over. "I'm still not crazy about this," he continues, "especially since we can't be a hundred percent that Arden's interpreting what they say right. But they're obviously trying to impress us. Which is a nice change of pace, if nothing else."

"Either that or this is part of their whole - celebration bounty spring whatever thing," Clarke says, popping the rest of it in her mouth and chewing greedily. God, it feels like it's been forever since she had food that actually tasted good.

"Well, princess," Bellamy says, grabbing the platter of meat and taking it over to the bed, the only piece of furniture in the room, other than the table. "Let's indulge. I'd say we deserve it."

Clarke bites back a smile, squares her shoulders, and grabs the wine.

"Now you're talking," she says.

* * *

Okay, so, just to clarify something else: she isn't stupid, or anything. She knows what it all looks like. It isn't like that, but it looks like it.

They usually share a room; it's just easier that way. They're not usually rolling in privacy, anyway, and after this thing with one of the Ark refugees who'd gotten maybe a little obsessed with Clarke (she hesitates to call it _stalking_, okay, it was mostly just...really sincere love notes and a lot of sad staring) Bellamy tends to get a little overprotective, so it's honestly easier just to sleep wherever he is rather than deal with his neuroticism about it the next morning.

The last time she remembers seeing him with a girl was about three years ago, before the cease fire with the Mountain and the trade accord and all that. She'd run into her coming out of his tent one night - an older woman, Clarke doesn't remember her name, something beginning with N, maybe? - and had caught a glimpse of the scattering of dark love bites down the back of her neck. But then came the drought, and the peace talks with Mount Weather, and since then they've been on the move almost constantly, so - it hasn't really been the first priority for either of them.

It's not like she thinks that he's in love with her or anything, that he's spent all these years pining away tragically, like some twisted post-apocalyptic Austen hero. She knows he _loves _her, of course, the same way she knows she loves him. The same way they love Octavia, and Jas and Monty and so on and so forth. Hard not to love somebody when you live like they do, honestly. Bonds forged in fire and blood and blah blah, whatever.

But - maybe it's still different. Maybe people keep thinking they're together because they are, in a way. Half the grounder clans they encounter just assume that they're married, and the Mountain certainly thinks the same - hell, even Clarke's mother probably does too, wherever the fuck she is now, with her own little group of Ark separatists, roaming around the world, trying to live life. And maybe, sometimes Clarke thinks - well, it's not a real marriage, is it, but does that really matter, at the end of the day?

But that's not - okay, fuck, this train of thought got away from her somewhere. She should...probably stop talking now.

* * *

It doesn't take long for them to get a little tipsy - drunk, she fears, is out of their reach, not with just one bottle and years of experience with Monty's booze, refined to battery acid perfection.

It is nice, though, to get a little floaty on wine and food that tastes good, on a comfortable bed with warm blankets, the sound of happy people creeping in from outside, the party that's since kicked into full swing. Clarke is, she dares to think, relaxed.

"This whole - spring and summer thing," Clarke says, reclining back on the pillows, shamelessly taking up most of the bed. "Why is spring a girl and summer a guy? Why not the other way around?"

"You think summer's more feminine?" Bellamy asks.

Clarke shrugs. "I don't think either of them have a particular...gender, honestly."

Bellamy downs the last of the wine, discarding the cask on the ground next to the bed. "The Greeks only had three seasons - spring, summer, and winter. There was a goddess of each - three daughters of Zeus called the Hours." He frowns. "I don't remember the names."

Nerd, Clarke thinks fondly. "I thought the Greek version was the whole Persephone and Hades thing."

"That too. The Greeks just liked stories." Bellamy shrugs. "There's usually one about the seasons along with an origin story, in most cultures. I don't remember them all. O's favorite was the Mesopotamian one, Ninhursag. She cursed her husband to the underworld for cheating on her with their own daughter, which made the earth barren and created winter." Clarke wrinkles her nose and Bellamy snorts. "Yeah. Octavia always liked the messed up ones the best."

"Sounds like her." Clarke sighs. "I guess the Marach's story is nice, in a way. Romantic. The whole idea of it being this grand battle that these two lovers keep winning, over and over, every year."

"Or losing," Bellamy points out, ever the cynic. "Just depends on where you start the story."

Clarke rolls her eyes as dramatically as she can manage. "Of course you would say that."

"Winter comes every year, princess," Bellamy teases.

"So does spring," Clarke points out, and something happens then, with his face, like it twists and darkens a little and he looks down at the bare skin of her knees, peeking out beneath her skirt, and she has to look away. "Uh - "

"You'd make a lousy spring goddess anyway," Bellamy says, a little too loud. Clarke looks back up at him abruptly, caught between outrage and surprise. "Well, you hate it, don't you? You're always sneezing on everything and grumping around for three months straight - "

Clarke laughs despite herself. "It's annoying! People go crazy after being cooped up all winter, they get reckless, hurt themselves more, get pregnant more - "

Bellamy's laughing at her, shaking his head. "You just never know how to have fun."

"Do too." She wrinkles her nose at him. "I'm fun."

"You're a downer," Bellamy tells her.

"I'm - ! You're the one who got all offended about this sex ritual thing, which seems like kind of a downer to me," Clarke says, forgetting to be embarrassed. Bellamy laughs again, a little incredulously, and she crosses her arms stubbornly in the face of it. "You know what I mean."

"I do," Bellamy says, sobering a little. He's sitting close to her feet, reclining sideways across the bottom of the bed, but he's so tall, his arms are long enough that he can reach up and touch her arm without even moving. Clarke feels a little claustrophobic, all of a sudden, even though he's as far away as he can get without leaving the bed entirely. "I just - I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable."

"I don't," Clarke says honestly.

"I mean that." He moves down to her hand, opening his palm up in invitation. Clarke takes it easily, used to that kind of touch from him. "Listen up, I'm gonna be real with you for a second."

"Listening," Clarke replies, smiling when he waits for her to meet his eye before he continues. So grave, she thinks. So formal.

"I know this is one of those things," he says, "that we're gonna do because it makes sense, and you were right before, it doesn't have to be a big deal. But Clarke, I'm not - you have to know I'm not going to do anything to you that you don't want me to do."

"I know that," Clarke replies, a little surprised.

"I want you to be okay with it." He purses his lips. "I need to know you're okay with it, alright? That's the only way I'm gonna be okay with it."

"Okay." Clarke feels a little overwhelmed by the intensity of his words, and the way he's looking at her, so serious and insistent. "I'll tell you if I get weirded out, if you do the same. Okay?"

He nods, and Clarke holds her breath as she watches him sit up, keeping his grip tight on her hand the entire time.

"Come here for a second," he says, tugging a little, and Clarke blinks, letting him pull her to her feet to stand at the edge of the bed in front of him. He really is that tall, she thinks a little dizzily. He doesn't have to reach up that far to touch her waist.

"Still okay?" he asks, a little dryly.

Clarke bares her teeth at him and he laughs. "Fine."

"Good," he says, and slides one hand down, experimentally, over the curve of her ass and further down to her thigh. She shivers.

"No kissing," she says suddenly, and he freezes, tilting his chin back and away from her. She feels a wave of something like shame fall over her. "I mean, just - "

"No, good idea," he interrupts, and pulls her abruptly closer, down onto his lap. Clarke squeaks a little, embarrassingly, and grabs his shoulders on instinct to steady herself. "Good idea."

"Keep it platonic," Clarke breathes, fascinated by the way the paint contrasts against his skin, a little paler than usual after the long months of winter, but still darker than her own. It's still tacky, and when she pulls her hand away from his bicep, there's a smear of color on her palm. Her dress has paint on it, too.

"Clinical," Bellamy says, voice a few steps deeper than usual. His palms are on the small of her back.

"Well, let's not go overboard," Clarke says bravely, and the smile she gets is worth the way the words make her insides tremble.

"Really, because I always thought you'd be a 'close your eyes and think of Earth' kind of girl," Bellamy says, settling his hands back on her waist.

Clarke smirks down at him and gets a little more comfortable, watches his reaction as she squirms closer. His eyes go half-mast and he actually shivers, which is kind of fascinating.

"No," she says triumphantly, "you really didn't."

* * *

They've kissed a few times, when they were drunk. One horrible night, around the time Finn and Raven had left, Clarke got so tired of being sad that she even went to his tent and asked him to fuck her, to which he responded with a droll, "not tonight honey, I've got a headache," and then kindly tucked her into his bed and glared at her until she went to sleep.

She woke up the next morning with a gigantic headache and cursed herself all the way through breakfast, ducking around corners to avoid him at every turn, thinking he was going to make fun of her. But all he did, when they finally came face to face, was give her one of those unimpressed looks, and said, "don't be such a drama queen Clarke, shit," and shoved the bag of seaweed he'd gone out to collect into her arms. She'd almost dropped it, and snapped at him to be careful, and he'd rolled his eyes and made a joke about doctors and clumsiness and brought up the time she'd tripped and hit her head in the lake and had to be pulled back to shore by Octavia, and then she'd forgotten why she was embarrassed about it in the first place.

Not a big deal. Whatever.

* * *

"I'm gonna - quit it, for real, I will walk away right now," Bellamy says, dodging her slap and rolling over onto her leg to keep it pinned down.

Clarke can't reply, too busy laughing at the look on his face. "Look at you! Oh my God, you look like you're about to march into battle or something - "

Considering how many times she's seen him actually march into battle, she'd think he'd take that seriously, but alas. "You know," he says imperiously, and leans a little harder on her leg. "_Most _girls enjoy this part. In fact, this is kind of the highlight for them, more often than not."

Clarke looks at his face and starts laughing again.

"That's it, I'm gone - "

"No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, okay." Clarke takes a deep breath and pats his head consolingly. "You can go down on me now. I'm totally serious about it."

Bellamy peers up at her skeptically, which is how she knows he's not really angry. "Nah, you know, I don't think I'm in the mood anymore."

"Well, you better get in the mood, buddy, because we've got to work for our food tonight."

Bellamy manages a full two seconds before he cracks, burying his laugh into her thigh. Clarke laughs along with him, just at the pure absurdity of the situation. The absurdity of her life.

"Are we even awake right now," Bellamy rumbles, into her skin.

Clarke shivers. That feels good, she notes absently. "It's possible."

His breath is warm against her skin, and it's not like he's even done anything or even taken anything off yet, but just being touched, in places nobody has touched her in so long, is enough.

Bellamy lifts his head up after a minute, seeming to pick up on her shift. "When's the last time somebody did this to you, princess?"

"I don't know," Clarke says, a little shakily. She's suddenly very aware of their position, of the fact that it's Bellamy leaning down between her legs, with his hands up her dress and his mouth on the inside of her knee. She closes her eyes so she can think clearly, trying to remember. "Um, Rehka, probably."

"Rehka?" Bellamy looks up at her, incredulous. "That was like, three years ago."

Clarke shrugs helplessly. "It's not like I have a lot of time to date."

"Yeah, but…" Bellamy trails off, still looking gobsmacked at the mere concept of a human being going that long without oral sex.

"Oh, like you've been getting it on the regular," Clarke says dryly. "Your room is right next to mine, don't forget."

"Well, it definitely hasn't been three years," Bellamy mutters.

"Three years since..._this_, not three years since sex in general," Clarke protests.

Bellamy looks even more offended at that, if anything. "Now that's just sad."

"Well, it's not like you're my first choice to break the dry spell," she says resentfully, smirking when Bellamy rolls his eyes at her in exasperation. "Are you gonna get on with it or just hang out and judge my sex life all night?"

"So demanding," Bellamy replies, with faux disappointment. Right, Clarke thinks. Like 'pushover' is really a quality he looks for in bed partners.

Before she can formulate a reply, he slides his hands up and presses his thumbs into the dips of her hipbones, just hard enough for her to feel it.

"You're wet," Bellamy observes, almost casually, "does arguing turn you on, princess?"

"No," Clarke says through a gasp, wincing at the sound of her own voice. Man, that didn't sound even a little convincing.

Bellamy seems to agree, smirking a little and tugging at the waistband of her underwear. "Can I take these off?"

Clarke nods, lifting her hips up so he can slide them down and over her knees. She kicks at them awkwardly, trying to shake them off, biting her lip to keep the laugh in when Bellamy shoots her an exasperated, indulgent look.

"Are we more serious now," Bellamy says once they're finally gone, voice low, and bends down to kiss her navel. Clarke has to swallow a few times before she can reply, her throat is so dry.

"Please," she says, meaning it to be dismissive, but it comes out as a genuine plea, instead. Bellamy kisses her again, then bites gently at the stretch marks that line her abdomen, smoothing the skirt of the dress up and out of the way.

"Just tell me if it's too much, alright," he says, and then moves the rest of the way down. Clarke tips her head back and thinks, _yeah, fat chance._

She doesn't feel much at first; it's almost like it's happening to someone else, in a way, and Clarke is just an observer, watching from the sidelines. But then Bellamy makes this sort of - sound, like a grunt almost but more nasal, and presses down harder with his tongue and Clarke gasps so loudly she almost coughs, and fuck,_ fuck _that is good.

She doesn't know what to do with her hands; there's no wall behind the bed to brace against and the fur on the blankets is too slippery, so she grabs her own hair instead, gripping the strands at the back of her neck like she's trying to hold herself down. It's good, it feels so good it's a little overwhelming actually, and Clarke very suddenly remembers that she_ likes _sex, likes being touched and held and kissed.

Bellamy has large hands, nice hands, with calluses that scrape pleasantly against her skin, and he holds her thighs apart, pushing them back and up, against her chest. His mouth is warm and pleasant against her, and he goes slow at first and then gradually gets faster, easing off every time she starts to twitch and tighten up. It's like teasing but also not, because all it does is just make it last longer, and the up and down of it isn't cruel, just - steady, a relentless ebb and flow. The wet sounds of it make it all seem that much more real, grounding the sensations firmly in the reality of Bellamy, leaning over her, his hands on her thighs, his mouth on her clit, rubbing paint off onto her skin and his face buried between her legs.

It's unreal in the way things tend to be when you never expected them to happen - how it just overwhelms you, makes you float along on this giddy little high and you just keep thinking,_ this is happening, this is actually happening._

She rides that giddy high all the way up and over, fisting her hands in her hair and letting it roll through her, sweep her head to toe like the shockwave from a dropship engine. It feels good, it feels clean, uncomplicated, and Bellamy eases her through it, only pulling away when she hisses at the sudden overstimulation.

"Okay?" he says after a moment, and pulls one of her legs down to rest over his shoulder, using it to brace himself over her. His mouth and chin are wet; Clarke stares, transfixed.

"Yeah."

"You sure? You're breathing hard."

_Orgasms tend to do that, _Clarke wants to say, but she can't quite seem to catch her breath to manage it, and realizes abruptly that he's right.

"Fuck, hold on," Bellamy says, wiping his mouth quickly and moving out of the vee of her legs, up next to her on the bed, "it's the dress, right?"

Clarke nods, letting him pull her upright so he can get to the laces. "Too small," she manages, gripping his waist as he messes with the bodice, tearing the ties apart and peeling it carefully free. "Oh my God," she breathes in relief when it's finally gone, wincing and raising her arms to let him pull the entire garment up over her head. "So much better."

"Should've told me," Bellamy mumbles, rubbing at the marks on her skin.

"The dress seemed important," Clarke replies wryly, leaning back into his embrace. Her legs are still tingling a little bit.

"I think breathing is actually a little more important," Bellamy replies, in that gently scolding way he has sometimes.

Clarke just shrugs, leaning more heavily against him. There's still paint all over his chest, and now it's on her, too, and some hidden, visceral part of her heart wriggles in satisfaction.

"Do you," and her voice cracks. Clarke swallows and tries again, "do you want to - "

"Yes," Bellamy says.

Clarke laughs and leans her forehead against his shoulder. There's paint in her hair, even. Now it'll be on her face. She doesn't care. "You didn't let me finish."

"Trust me, whatever you were about to say, the answer's yes."

"Careful," Clarke teases, "you shouldn't write blank checks like that."

"I feel pretty confident about you at the moment," Bellamy replies, and slides his free hand up her stomach to her breasts.

Clarke indulges him for a few moments, but it doesn't actually do much for her - never has - and the pressure to pretend is oddly absent. "Come on," she says, pulling away and flopping back down on her back. "Like this."

Bellamy grins at her, lacing their fingers together and letting her pull him down. He settles down on top of her like he's always been there, like he knows just how to balance so the weight is pleasant and not overwhelming. "Hell, princess, I should've known you'd be like this."

"Like what?" Clarke asks, placing her palm on his chest and smearing some paint that's gathered in the dip of his collarbone, pulling it up and drawing a muddy, colored line up his neck.

"Fun."

Clarke gapes at him. "You said I wasn't! Not even an hour ago, I heard you."

"Well normally you aren't," Bellamy says, "but it's the buttoned-up types like you that you have to watch out for."

"I'm not sure how to feel about that, Bellamy."

"Feel this," Bellamy tells her, and bends down to kiss her neck, "feel good."

Clarke takes the direction to heart, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. But, seriously though - "I'm telling you," she says, as he trails wet little kisses down her throat, "I can be fun. I _am _a fun person. And not just in bed - like, generally."

"Of course you are," he mutters, and bites her chin.

"I mean, maybe I get a little single-minded sometimes, but so do you, and since when are you the gatekeeper of what's considered fun or not, maybe I_ like _studying Lincoln's herb journals - "

"Clarke," Bellamy says, "I'm going to fuck you now."

"Yeah okay," Clarke says, and hitches her thigh a little higher up on his waist. "I'm still fun though," she adds, which is why Bellamy's laughing as he slides inside her, why she's laughing too, gripping his shoulders and grinning wildly up at the ceiling.

The first thrust is always Clarke's favorite and Bellamy doesn't disappoint, pushing in as far as he can and pausing a little to let her get her breath back. Clarke's laugh turns into a moan, one of those really good ones that come out because you just can't hold them in, and Bellamy curses under his breath, his arms shaking a little where they're braced on either side of her head.

"That's it," he murmurs, pulling out and thrusting back in again, slow and steady. "Clarke - "

"I know, I know," she says, and laughs again. "Faster - you can go faster - "

Bellamy breathes out harshly and presses his face into her cheek for a second, a gesture so oddly sweet that she actually tears up a little._ I'm so glad it's him, _she thinks, and grips his neck with one hand, scratching at his scalp and getting paint in his hair._ I lied before, I'm so glad it's him._

She doesn't know how long it lasts, because she loses herself in it the second he starts to move again, holding her knee in one hand and her hair in the other. Her whole body feels like one long, giant current, and every spot he touches is like a live spark, a jolt of electricity, and of course he was right. Of course she should've known it'd be like this.

At some point, he must kiss her, or maybe she kisses him, or maybe it doesn't matter because who cares who started it when it's so good, when she feels devoured in the best way possible, so small beneath him but so powerful, all at once. Clarke wants it to last forever. She wants to go back in time and yell at herself for not doing this sooner. She wants to do it again and it's not even over yet. She _wants._

(Understandable that the concept is a little foreign. Clarke's forgotten what that felt like, too.)

Bellamy makes these noises as they kiss, like rough little grunts deep in his throat that make Clarke shiver, and he says her name over and over as she comes, whispering it into her ear like a secret - _Clarke, Clarke, Clarke._ Then he's right there behind her, as always, pressing in deep and burying his groan in her neck as she shakes and tries to keep her legs from falling back down to the bed in exhaustion.

Clarke whimpers a little, digging her fingernails into his bicep, the ache in her left thigh getting a little unbearable. Bellamy immediately pulls away, easing her legs back down to the bed and pressing his mouth to her sternum, like an apology.

"No kissing huh," he says, and licks some of the paint off the inside of her right arm. Clarke has the presence of mind to hope that it's digestible and not made of those freaky berries that make your hair grow really fast, because that would be awkward.

"Well, heat of the moment, it doesn't count," Clarke replies, waving her hand dismissively. "Besides, we don't like each other remember? That's what's important."

"Right." Bellamy sits up on his knees briefly, unintentionally presenting her with an impressive display of their handiwork. Whatever designs that paint had at the beginning is just a smeared mess of muddy yellowish-grey now, and Clarke bites her lip a little, looking down at her own torso and seeing the matching stains. "Would you look at this?" He's snagged her dress from where it fell, holding it up gingerly. The skirt has ripped from the bodice, and the whole thing is just a scraggly mess. "Think they'll frame it or something?"

"Oh my God," Clarke says, "I don't even wanna think about it."

Bellamy shakes his head and tosses it down on the floor. "Let 'em go wild," he mutters dryly, and grabs the blankets, pulling them up from where they've bunched together at the foot of the bed. "Over," he says, and jabs at her thigh gently.

Clarke grumbles a bit but moves obligingly to let him collapse back into bed next to her. "God, I'm tired." She opens one eye. "Don't say it."

"Say what," Bellamy says, but his face is smug.

"Ugh," Clarke replies, making a face. He laughs in reply - a genuine one, a rare thing for him that's been unusually frequent tonight - and Clarke maybe feels a bit of smugness of her own.

"C'mon princess," he says, manhandling her under the blankets, tucking her into his side with one long, powerful arm. "Let's get some rest. Long hike back home tomorrow."

It occurs to Clarke that she should maybe feel awkward about their nakedness, but -

"This isn't cuddling," she tells him. "Just co-sleeping."

"Of course," Bellamy replies easily.

"I wouldn't cuddle you if - " she pauses to yawn. "If you were the last man on Earth."

"Yeah, I don't like you either," Bellamy replies agreeably, and strokes her hair.

Clarke sighs in contentment and scoots a little closer. She feels much better now that they've made their positions clear.

* * *

Arden wakes them up the next morning with a polite knock and two grounders carrying an incredibly welcome basin of warm water, which Clarke indulges in for maybe a little too long, judging by the exasperated looks Bellamy starts shooting her after the first ten minutes.

"Don't even act like you're not checking me out right now," Clarke tells him, weirdly giddy and comfortable in the intimacies of waking up together, bathing in front of each other, being able to look over and watch him get dressed in the early morning light. "You know you like it."

"I check you out all the time," Bellamy tells her. "I didn't think I'm ever _subtle _about it."

"Oh, you're not," Clarke says, and cups some water in her hands, letting it splash down over her bare shoulders. "It's nice not to have to pretend not to notice, though."

Bellamy smirks at her, and keeps watching.

The Marach leader - Bran, Arden had said - greets them with a friendly smile once they finally emerge, bowing at them each in turn and chattering away in his rapid, almost-French.

"He says - he's thanking you," Arden says haltingly, trying to listen and translate at the same time. "He says it was a beautiful celebration and he's happy you honored them with your participation, and - something about air? Sky? Who knows - oh!" Arden pauses, listening intently when Bran turns to speak directly to her. "Merci beaucoup. Oui." She turns to smile at them both. "He's eager to be friends. That was the last thing."

Clarke's shoulders relax a little, and she feels Bellamy's do the same, next to her. "Tell him thank you," she says. "Tell him we're the ones who are honored, and…" she trails off, glancing up at Bellamy, a look of bland approval on his face. "And that it was our pleasure."

"And ask what they're gonna do with the dress," Bellamy murmurs, just for her ears, and Clarke bites her lip against the smile.

Arden's translation takes a little longer this time, but Bran's good cheer is palpable, and he seems to be patient with her in a way that he hasn't been yet, all week. Who knew, Clarke thinks wryly, that sex could have such an effect even on somebody who wasn't one of the people having it. Wonders truly never cease.

"They have food for us," Arden says finally, turning back with a grin. "Breakfast in their main greeting hall. Then they're going to send us back to camp with an escort, and the first supply of grain they promised us."

"Great," Clarke says, "I'm starving."

Bran touches Arden's arm politely, nodding encouragingly at all three of them and gesturing at a one of the larger turf buildings, towards the center of the encampment. Arden shoots Clarke one last triumphant grin and scuttles off to follow his lead, leaving Clarke and Bellamy to trail behind in their wake.

"So," Clarke says triumphantly, "this whole diplomacy thing sure is going great."

"Oh, shut _up_," Bellamy replies, raising his voice over her laugh. "It still could've been the altar. I maintain that was a legitimate concern."

"I don't know, that could've been_ fun_," Clarke replies, just to see his reaction. He doesn't disappoint her there, either. "What, too much for ya? Not into it?"

"You are so annoying when you're in a good mood," Bellamy complains, and she laughs again, happier than she's been in months and not particularly caring if he knows it.

Who cares, anyway. They have grain, and new allies. She's clean, the sun is shining, she had two orgasms last night and there's a smear of paint beneath Bellamy's left ear he'd missed that she's going to really enjoy looking at for the rest of the day. Life is good, for the moment.

"Fine," Bellamy says, "you're fun. I'll admit it, if it means that much to you."

"It kind of does," she admits. Their hands tangle together as they walk, so naturally Clarke almost doesn't notice at first, until she does. She's not about to let go, though. It'd be like giving up. "You really don't know what you've been missing out on all this time, you know."

"Well, I do now," Bellamy says, and tugs her a little closer. "Don't I."

"Nothing you'd like, clearly," Clarke says cheerfully.

"Yeah," Bellamy replies. "You're kind of a turn off, frankly." Clarke grins hard at the side of his face until he smiles, rolling his eyes a little and shaking his head.

_Not a big deal at all, _she thinks, and squeezes his hand. He squeezes back. It's good to be on the same page.


End file.
